A Learning Process
by Belfast Docks
Summary: In truth, it was a learning process. And inexperienced though she was, she discovered she learned quickly. Mary/Dickon, Lemon.


**Warning: Contains sex. Sometimes I just want to write smut.**

**Pairing: Mary x Dickon**

**Author's Note:** Right after I posted this story, I did in fact wonder why on earth Mary wouldn't get pregnant by the end of the thing. It is this piece's major flaw, and I will admit to it. I've had several reviewers mention it to me, and I completely understand their thoughts! I decided not to change anything, however. So if you're wondering why Mary isn't pregnant by the end, well, call it fanfiction, and let's leave it at that.

~BD

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**A Learning Process**

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She had been fifteen, and he had been seventeen.

Unaware that her body was changing as much as it was, she still wore the same old cotton gardening dresses whenever she went out to work in her secret haven. And once or twice, she had wondered why he looked at her the way he did – his eyes dark and strangely hungry, and his body perfectly still, when only moments before he had been pruning roses and singing low and husky in Yorkshire. She would flush whenever she met that heated, blue gaze and quickly return to her work, trying to ignore the strange twitching sensation she would feel creeping over her skin whenever it happened and, oddly, the emptiness that melted into liquid between her legs.

But it wasn't until a sporadic, early summer shower caught them in the garden, soaking both through to the skin, that it went too far.

Her dress had been a half size too small. It pulled too tightly over her breasts and at her hips, and it was too short. And when it rained, not even her chemise could hide her suddenly hard nipples.

He had turned to take her hand and pull her towards the towering oak, so they wouldn't get any wetter than they already were. But when his firm, calloused, brown fingers grasped her slender ones, he froze. She saw his eyes dart instinctively to her breasts and the tight points at their tips, saw his Adam's apple bob a couple of times in quick succession, saw the muscles beneath his worn shirt tense and bunch.

For a brief second, he remained perfectly still. Then, as though he couldn't possibly help it, he slowly lifted his hand, and tortuously drew a gentle finger down her neck, her throat, her collarbone, and finally over her breast and her nipple. It hardened even more beneath his touch, and she gasped and cried out softly and instantly arched towards him in a way that completely surprised her.

And then, for the first time since she'd met him, she watched him lose control.

In truth, it was a learning process. And inexperienced though she was, she discovered she learned quickly.

She learned that he was no Yorkshire moor angel as she had always imagined, but a young Yorkshire _man_. And she discovered, to her pleasure, that she preferred him as a young man and not an angel, especially when her fingers skated over tanned freckled shoulders and arms and back and chest, beneath which lay quivering, rippling, hard muscle that made her body curve desperately towards him. She wanted to memorize him, and she did. Even now, she could recall the perfect way his shoulders and jaw had been seemingly chiseled from a master stone.

And despite his hunger and need for her, he had been as gentle and as considerate as he could be, given the heated intensity of an instantaneous, desperate situation. She became acutely aware of the warring emotions he felt, because she felt them, too. She couldn't decide if she wished to touch him quickly for fear that he would disappear, or slowly and shyly as a young lady who had never done this before should. And for some reason, she didn't _want_ to be a shy, proper young lady. Her blood felt much too hot to be proper.

She also couldn't possibly decide if she wanted his firm lips coaxing hers, his tongue dancing feverishly with her tongue and those warm hands cupping her body, his fingers digging into her flesh so deliciously…or if she wanted his mouth suckling her breasts. Both were equally satisfying and made her want more.

She then learned that the cool, wet grass felt odd against her bare back, but on the other hand, his hot, damp hips felt perfectly right, fitted into hers. She wondered how she had never thought of lying naked with him before, and remembered that it was because she didn't know how to do it until the moment he touched her in the rain. She gasped when he first entered her, but then relished the thick, smooth hardness because it filled her completely, and the way he managed to touch a spot just _right there_ within her tight heat that caused bursts of starry light to flash before her eyes. She clutched him to her, afraid to let go, and yet certain that nothing had ever felt so right or good as she rocked hotly with him.

The stickiness that followed felt as strange as the wet grass did, but deliciously nice in a way the grass was not; especially as it had come just after her own body had tensed and exploded and sent her flying in a way she'd never, ever dreamed. And when she slowly came back to herself, she found that she loved his weight on her, that her hands were sliding lazily over a lovely thin sheen of sweat and rain on his broad shoulders, and that she cherished the deep blue of his eyes even more. When he whispered in a trembling voice that he'd always loved her and that he was sorry, but that he hadn't been able to stop himself because of how much he'd needed her when he'd seen her so damp and chilled, she couldn't hold back quiet, happy tears. Only when she told him that she loved him too did the line of worry on his brow ease away, and he held her so tightly that her breasts flattened into his hard chest. For the first time in her life, she realized she had felt truly safe, and truly loved.

After that, watching him lose control became an intense pleasure. It helped that Colin was in London at school, because it meant there would be no interruptions. She deliberately found the smallest dresses in her wardrobe and would change into them after she reached the secret garden but before he arrived, so she could watch the uncontainable lust in his eyes flare the moment he entered and saw her waiting for him. It became a game, having him unfasten the tugging buttons and hooks to free her from the confines of the tight fabric so they could press naked against each other and groan with need before they became a part of the other. Sometimes he didn't even bother taking her dresses off, but would simply hike her skirt to her waist so quickly that she didn't have time to react; then he would pin her to one of the rough walls and wrap her legs about his hips so he could thrust into her.

She learned that she still had much more to learn after that first time they made love against the garden wall; that there were many ways of doing it besides lying on the grass. By autumn, she flushed to even think of where they had been together, and the positions they had tried. Even once when it was too chilly out, he had met her in the barn and they had hidden in the loft one evening when the gardeners and stable hands had gone in for dinner, and she told him afterwards she detested the feel of the hay against her skin. He had merely chuckled; that low, throaty, husky chuckle that made her quiver with anticipation, and told her he'd find a more comfortable place with the weather turning colder. She suggested he sneak into the manor and they could hide in one of the hundred rooms. So they did, more times than she remembered.

She learned how to please him because he taught her how – in that patient way he had taught her how to prune roses and pull weeds and speak Yorkshire. And sometimes he wasn't patient in the least, and she would laugh once it was over at how eager and hungry and demanding he had been, and he would only grin cheekily and tell her that, how every now and then, it was utterly impossible to be patient when he wanted her so badly.

"Mary! What on earth are you doing by that window? Do come and join us, won't you?"

Her eyes drifted shut in an attempt to control her temper, and she sighed softly from the sheer irritation at having her secret thoughts interrupted. Glancing away from the frost-covered window and over her shoulder towards the young, insipid schoolmate who had spoken to her, she said coolly, "I'm watching the snow. I'll join you in a moment."

The other girls, who were all gathered about the cheery fire with several young men, shook their heads at the contrary Miss Lennox's ways, and returned to their conversations. She vaguely realized they were discussing the theatre's production they had all gone to earlier that evening.

Only one young man kept his eyes on her – thoughtful agate eyes framed with thick lashes. She allowed her mask to disappear for the briefest moment so that he, at least, could see her true feelings: loneliness and longing and worry. Because, after all, her cousin worried as much as she did ever since they had learned of their dearest friend's conscription into the army, and his subsequent transfer to France. For now, the memories of that last year together with Dickon were all that kept her going as she worked to complete finishing school and as she endured the social elite of London, while he slept in muddy, filthy trenches and was forced to kill men. When at any moment he could be killed himself. The memories barely kept her sane. And the letters; for they corresponded as much as possible.

He had already told her he intended on marrying her, no matter what anyone thought. No matter that he was a commoner and she a lady. And she had already consented, and her uncle and cousin would either accept her decision or they wouldn't. She had turned down every wealthy suitor who vied to be her beau whilst she was in London, dreaming only of a young moor lad and basking in the delicious sensations that danced over her skin whenever she thought of him. No wealthy, arrogant fop could make her feel the way he could. No London man could make her feel complete. At least Colin knew she loved Dickon; that helped some. Colin understood, though he was concerned for both of them, and though he'd admitted he still felt a bit jealous.

She sighed and turned back to the cold window, blatantly ignoring the sudden burst of giggling over some stupid, pointless joke from the group about the fire.

She couldn't wait to return to Yorkshire.

And she prayed that Dickon would return from France alive so she could be his wife.

**~FIN~**


End file.
